


The Treehouse

by Eliya



Series: Circa '44 [1]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, AU-with powers, Cherik - Freeform, Cherik being boys, Cherik being cute, Childhood Friendship, Erik doesn't talk much, Kid!Charles, Kid!Erik, M/M, Series, Treehouses, but he is a sweetheart, charles is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3075734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliya/pseuds/Eliya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles' skin crawled at the thought of spending an entire afternoon in a cold, hard cube. Discomfort nipped at the surge of gratitude he felt at the gift, but Charles was nothing if not a good friend.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Erik,” Charles said. “But I do insist I decorate it, since you’ve already finished up most of it,” he added, making a show of giving the treehouse a once-over.</p>
<p>Erik’s eyebrows lifted at that, but after a moment, he nodded, his eyes bright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Treehouse

**Author's Note:**

> This is the introductory story to my first series (to start off 2015), Circa '44. In this AU, Erik meets Charles in his childhood instead of Raven, but the period is generally the same, all the characters just meet under different circumstances. The two boys will eventually have that angsty, conflicted relationship we all love, but as they grow up together, things will go differently.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and stick with the series! Happy New Year, everyone! :)

_June, 1945_

“There’s too much...metal,” Charles said.

Erik lifted an eyebrow at Charles. “I wonder why.” The words tumbled out in a garbled German accent, but something in his tone made Charles cast a sideways glance at him.

A shadow overcame Erik’s face, making him look older than his twelve-year-old self. The corner of his mouth was tilted down and his fingers tugged at his shirt sleeve. Charles’s gaze softened. He didn’t have to read Erik’s mind to know what he was thinking.

“But I suppose it does have its own appeal,” Charles grinned, nudging Erik's shoulder. Erik elbowed his ribs in retaliation, but Charles could feel some of his uneasiness fading.

Before them stood a withered oak tree, tall and proud against the bright sky. The tree had been in those woods decades before his father had inherited the estate, but now, in the beginnings of summer, its swaying branches had never looked more alive.

Sitting in the cusp of the diverging branches was a small metal shed. It looked awkward and irregular, like someone had pressed it from deformed metal scraps. And Erik had done exactly that. He’d collected coins, cutlery, nails and screws -- anything from the mansion he knew Charles wouldn’t miss -- and had melted and reformed them into iron sheets. Afterward, he’d assembled and sealed their edges until it resembled a sliced-open box. He’d then levitated the entire thing onto the old oak, temples throbbing and buzzing with power. His arms hadn't been steady for hours after, but he didn't regret one bit of it.

For Charles, though, his skin crawled at the thought of spending an entire afternoon in a cold, hard cube. Discomfort nipped at the surge of gratitude he felt at the gift, but Charles was nothing if not a good friend.

He engulfed Erik in a hug, both mental and physical, tangling thoughts of warmth and excitement into his. “Thank you, Erik,” Charles said, pulling back. “But I do insist I decorate it, since you’ve already finished up most of it,” he added, making a show of giving the treehouse a once-over.

Erik’s eyebrows lifted at that, but after a moment, he nodded, his eyes bright.

*~*

Erik awoke the next morning to Charles bouncing on the edge of his bed.

“Come on, Erik! Get up!” Charles laughed, his voice squeaking octaves higher between words. He tugged at Erik’s sheets, threatening to pull them from beneath him. “Let’s go, Erik!”

With a groan, the older boy jerked the goose feather pillow from under his head and threw it at Charles. The impact had him tumbling off the bed with a soft oof.

“Shut up,” Erik grumbled, but he was already scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. He sat up, groggy, and found Charles next to his bed laying under the pillow, eyes closed and limbs bent at gawky angles. Erik was caught between laughing and rolling his eyes. He settled with, “I know you’re not dead.”

He pushed himself off his bed and padded to the bathroom, leaving Charles to jump up and out of the room.

*~*

Charles’ contagious burst of energy spurred them on as they worked on the treehouse. Erik loved Charles like this: free of the pain his telepathy caused him and able to block out the voices in his head just enough to feel the summer on his skin. Erik's limbs were already throbbing before long, but he stayed with Charles without complaint. The two braved the trek from the mansion to the tree and many times back, sweaty and laughing and full of eagerness.

By noon of the first day, they had hauled in a generous pile of mismatched objects to put in their treehouse: A thick wad of old blankets, a rickety footstool, a ratty mattress, a hideous pale green wicker basket, half a dozen pillows, a stack of metal plates, and a box of jars of various sizes.

They began carrying the books on the afternoon of the second day, in boxes of ten or twelve at a time. Both boys had an unrivaled love for the yellowed pages and leather spines. Charles’ had begun out of curiosity, while Erik’s had rooted from memories of his mother’s bedtime stories. The day Erik had revealed this to Charles had been a difficult one, but Charles remembered it as the day Erik had really started trusting him.

On the fourth day, Charles declared it was time to bring the decor up into the treehouse itself. Without preamble he cradled a jar in his arm and began climbing the oak, his hand losing hold every so often. It never stopped Charles from making his way up, but it made something twist in Erik’s stomach.

“Be careful,” Erik warned. He bit his lip, almost drawing blood when Charles’ almost slipped yet again. Erik huffed at Charles’ stubbornness. He levitated one of their metal plates so that it hovered beneath Charles’ foot, ready to catch him should disaster strike.

Charles looked at the humming object below him. He threw Erik a fond look over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Erik, _honestly_.” When he reached the cradle of branches, he did a little jump just to prove his point. The motion made Erik’s stomach flip and his face go pale. Charles let out an exasperated sigh, and Erik really should’ve been angry at this point, but a shattering sound made them gasp.

Erik found the cause first: the jar Charles has been bringing up had slipped from his grasp without either of them noticing. He examined the jar, holding it up to the light, and saw a spidery crack running along one side of its sleek body. He glared at Charles through the glass.

_Oops?_ Charles sent. Erik gave him a look. _I’ll be more careful_ , Charles sighed in defeat.

Erik decided not to push it any further. Charles _did_ enjoy being taller than him after all, he thought.

Charles narrowed his eyes. _I heard that_ , he said, annoyed.

Erik smirked up at him.

*~*

It was the sixth day and Erik had a haunting feeling that something was going to go wrong.

_I haven’t fallen, yet,_ Charles had told Erik last night as he’d drifted off. Charles was so full of careless certainty sometimes, and it irked Erik to no end. He’d put up a fight that morning when Charles had asked him to fetch them some lunch. Charles had been hauling things up, not even watching his step, when he’d groaned and tried to reassure Erik that he’d be fine. Erik had stormed off, grumbling and muttering to himself what a complete idiot Charles was being.

Erik was already at the edge of the woods when he realized, with a gasp, that he could no longer feel Charles’ presence against his mind.

“ _Erik!_ ”

Erik’s body went rigid.

He felt as if the air had been punched out of his lungs. A cold sweat broke out on his palms. He turned heel and ran. Ice froze his veins and electricity fired through his legs with every footfall. Low branches whipped at his face. He flinched at the contact but didn’t stop. The coins in his pocket hummed and heated with dread, threatening to rip the fabric of his pocket. Tears prickled at the back of his eyes. He wiped at them before they could blur his vision.

Charles’ form finally came into view, books scattered around him. He was curled in the tall grass and clutching at his leg, whimpering. Erik dropped to his knees beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Erik panted out, eyes searching Charles. _Scheisse, shouldn’t have left him shouldn’t dumm fuhrt what--_

Big blue eyes gazed up at Erik. They were rimmed red but somehow made Erik stop thinking. “Don’t feel bad, Erik. I was the one who made you get something after all,” Charles managed, trying and failing to put on a smile. Tears were clogging up his throat and he made a horrible choking sound.

“What happened?” Erik demanded. Charles winced and pressed his finger to his temple. A sequence of images appeared in Erik’s mind: Charles climbing the branches with a box of books cradled under his arm, Charles missing a foothold and slipping, Charles landing with his ankle bending the wrong way and the books falling around him.

“I might’ve broken my ankle,” Charles said, his voice tight.

Erik lifted his eyebrow, the lines of his face hardening. He began probing Charles’ leg, coaxing it out of his grasp and checking for any tender spots.

When Erik’s fingers prodded a particularly swollen area, Charles cried out and screwed his eyes shut. Erik withdrew his fingers. Without warning, he dug his arms under Charles’ smaller body and lifted him with physical strength he hadn’t known. Charles yelped in surprise, and tried to protest, but Erik ignored him. In all his movements, Erik remained surprisingly careful, trying his best to lessen Charles’ groans.

“Erik...don’t...”

Erik began trudging back to the mansion, lips pinched and nostrils flared. Charles grew quiet and surrendered to Erik’s fury, attempting to apologize through his telepathy. He poked at Erik’s mind with sheepish thoughts, trying to coat their minds in a warm, comforting glow. Erik’s demeanor remained stony, making sure Charles heard him mentally cursing in German. Charles huffed.

When they finally crossed the threshold of the main sitting room, Erik unceremoniously dropped Charles onto the couch. Charles hissed and strained, seeing Erik leave the room from the corner of his eye.

Erik returned with a roll of bandages in one hand and a bag of ice in the other. He knelt on knobbly knees beside the couch, hands shaking. Charles pursed his lips and reached out to touch his shoulder. The tautness in Erik’s body seemed to flow out of him, leaving his posture wilted and sagging.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. With a sigh, Erik began wrapping the cloth around Charles’ ankle, tucking the ice against the discolored patches of skin. Charles watched him. “I made you worry.” He heard Erik snort.

“Stupid,” Erik told him, jabbing him in the ribs.

“I know.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

Erik stood and brushed off his knees. He clenched his fists and crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. He scratched the back of his neck, below his short-cropped hair. Finally, he offered Charles a small smile.


End file.
